


Standing in the Shadow of a Wing

by Moon_Rose (Moonrose91)



Series: Wings in Disarray [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Episode: s01e02 Sleight of Hand, Gen, Pre and Post Episode as well as Episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-27
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2018-02-10 15:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2029851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonrose91/pseuds/Moon_Rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan has only been in Paris for five days when he's approached by the Captain (as well as Porthos and Aramis) about a ploy to befriend a criminal and learn about his stockpile of gunpowder.</p><p>In the wings, players make their move, and what should have been a few days in prison turns into a dangerous game that could end with treason...or death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Outlining the Plan

**Author's Note:**

> Oooh, "Sleight of Hand" has decided to become a chapter fic!
> 
> *makes a sound*
> 
> That was actually unexpected.
> 
> ANYWAY!!
> 
> The wonderful and brilliant [wanderingidealism](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism) has made some really pretty artwork of some of the characters seen here!
> 
> [Vadim is the first one. Not colored, but that's okay, I'll get to his wings in a chapter or so.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2005389)
> 
> [Aramis the one who gets his wings so lovingly mentioned in this chapter.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2029365)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville lays out his plan to d'Artagnan, and the Inseparables, to learn where Vadim has stored his gunpowder.
> 
> ((Sorry, I forgot to mention when I posted this, because I was exhausted, this does mention someone attempting to burn d'Art alive in his youth.))

D'Artagnan truly disliked Monsieur Bonnacieux, though he knew he'd scrape together, somehow, the full month's pay, in addition to the two weeks he had already given the man, just to stay near Constance.

He couldn't help it.

He wanted to be near the only one who seemed calm with his wings.

"You know, they wouldn't be this bad if you didn't keep them bound down all the time!" Constance scolded as she helped him to flex them, d'Artagnan wincing in pain while he shuddered in relief at having them unbound at the same time.

"Oh, yes, and get pulled up before someone for witchcraft or something equally painful," d'Artagnan retorted as she worked on his other wing.

"You won't be pulled up for Witchcraft," she grumbled as she worked on his wing when a knock echoed through the house.

"Stay. Put! You put your wings back down like you have been and I'll cut up your bindings and use them for cleaning rags!" she warned darkly and d'Artagnan nodded as she practically stormed away, nearly slamming the door behind her.

D'Artagnan merely worked on stretching out his wings, feeling the big first bone that went from his shoulder blade to his lower back extend fully, followed by the second that went up to the shoulder, followed by the fourth, which connected to the flat third bone. He winced at the way it touched the far wall and closed his eyes as he slowly brought it back. “I really do need to go flying,” he murmured softly as he continued to stretch the wing, slowly working out the kinks.

His wings were sore all over, a combination of being bound for too long and rubbing oddly against his skin, which also made his back sore. “That was Aramis, who thinks that you should let your wings breathe as well, but that you’re needed by the Captain. I truly hope that means you’ll let your wings out because your back I think is about to develop sores,” Constance stated as she walked back in and d’Artagnan resisted the urge to groan as he slumped forward.

“No, no I will not let my wings breathe,” he answered, letting out a hiss as Constance began to dab something onto his back.

“Oh? And how do you plan to deal with this then?” she inquired sharply and d’Artagnan stood, heading over to his saddlebags to pull out the clean cloths he used for such occasions.

“This has happened before?” Constance demanded.

“Yes,” he answered and sat on the bed, holding the cloth back to her.

She grumbled and cursed him a bit before she began to bandage the coming sores, followed by helping to bind his wings into place, cursing him and everyone who made him prefer to do this, than let them be free. “Thank you, Madame Bonnacieux,” he stated as he stood, once he tugged his shirt on over his wings, ignoring the way they protested confinement.

He carefully belted his sword, pistol, and main gauche to his waist, wincing at the way they pushed against his wings before he shifted the belt so it didn’t press so painfully against his wings and headed out, ignoring Constance’s muttering. “That’s really not healthy you know,” Aramis stated as he removed his hat to run his fingers through his hair before he settled it back on his head as d’Artagnan stepped outside.

“I am aware of that, yes,” d’Artagnan answered calmly as he continued to adjust the belt, ignoring the way Aramis’s wings twitched the way they had when walking up to Athos with the pardon from the King.

He still couldn’t believe how fast Treville had been able to get the King up to sign that pardon. “I’m still not sure you actually  _are_  aware of it, considering that you never let your wings out,” Aramis argued before he gave a small shrug, his wings fluttering wildly and glinting in the sunlight like living rainbows before settling flat against his back.

*~*~*

“…And you’re the only one we can at least partially trust in this plan that won’t betray the King,” Treville finished, his Peregrine falcon wings stretching briefly before folding close and d’Artagnan leaned back slightly on his heels.

“And how would I escape a hanging?” d’Artagnan inquired, feeling his wings try and fold closer at the thought.

They were already folded as close as they would go, however, and Treville nodded, even as Athos stood up, his golden wings flaring slightly with the movement. “You cannot honestly be considering using him!” Athos exclaimed.

D’Artagnan bit his tongue with the ease of practice, even as Porthos sighed. “Give him a chance, Athos! Before anyone can be even  _considered_  for a probationary year for the Musketeers, they have to prove that they can handle themselves twice over, at least. He’s proven it once already helping us clear your name. Let him do it again,” Aramis stated.

“He’s too raw!” Athos argued.

“He’s right here and would like to know how he’s going to avoid being hung if he agrees,” d’Artagnan interjected softly and Porthos laughed.

“What did I say? We could use him around here,” Porthos stated and d’Artagnan looked away.

“The Cardinal is in on it. You’ll be fighting one of his Red Guards, but he refuses to put one of his Red Guards on the line,” Treville explained and d’Artagnan let out a long sigh, feeling his wings relax as much as they could before he gave a nod.

“Why not one of the Musketeers?” he inquired.

“Vadim won’t trust a Musketeer. You are new to Paris, may have a chance. I am hoping that his coming execution will loosen his tongue enough to speak with a cell mate before being dragged off to the gallows,” Treville answered and d’Artagnan rolled his shoulders a bit at the thought of having to go to prison.

He hadn’t liked it when he was locked up, briefly, in what passed for a jail cell in Lupiac on the suspicion of arson until the physician finally checked him over to find rope injuries, which had him cleared. Not the fact his mother had lost more feathers, disfiguring her black swan wings further to fire and ripping her son out of the cellar he had been left in to die.

He inhaled sharply and then let out a long sigh. “I’ll do it,” d’Artagnan stated, not acknowledging Athos’s protest.

He did, however, notice the way Porthos’s wings shifted, coming to curl around his shoulders, somewhat, as if he was trying to hide from a truth.

It was a move d’Artagnan knew, as his own wings did the same, and so had his mother’s, once upon a time.


	2. Insider Information (Suzette, so hinted Prostitution, hinted BDSM)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Suzette learns a few useful things.
> 
> And then she tells Vadim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here is Athos. That's actually how I imagined him. So handsome. Look at that noble face.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2038656)
> 
> [I'm so mean to d'Art, really. I am so mean and cruel to him. I am evil to him. BUT LOOK AT THAT FACE!! How can I not hurt him, with that face? That reads so twisted, but I can't help it. Also, this is fantastic. Seriously, so fantastic, so brilliant, so wonderful. These are his wings. Ugh, yeah, I suck at describing I'm sorry, but LOOK AT THIS ART!! THIS ARTIST DID SO WELL!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2038773)

Suzette stretched lazily, her bluish-gray wings (a customer once called them  _crane wings_ , but she had never bothered to see if he was lying or not, merely told him that if he wanted a feather, it would be extra) stretching with her, while the Musketeer, one with some hard shelled wings that gleamed like the emeralds that Vadim got her, once (she had to sell them during a lean time, but Vadim had understood, whispering promises of riches into her neck as brown wings with sky blue spots spread above them), chuckled breathlessly. "You are a wonder, Suzette," he stated, pale face practically flushed red as a ruby, and she smiled.

"Oh, that's so nice of you to say," she chuckled, thinking of the way Vadim always murmured praise for her clever fingers, her faithfulness, how she was worthy of living like a Queen.

( _"I'll give you the stars, steal them right out of the sky for you,"_  he had murmured, when she was just a scullery maid, and he was just a kitchen nobody, and there had been something in his eyes that had her believing him, and still believing him, even as he sat in the Châtelet, though he wouldn't be for long.)

"...idiot," the Musketeer stated and she immediately focused on him.

"What's that? Sorry love, just remembering a fantastic night," she stated, focusing on him, the Musketeer not even offended.

"S'alright, Suzette. Just ranting about the little idiot, d'Artagnan. Haven't got a clue what his first name is, but he spends a bit of time around Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Got called up into the Captain's office today," he stated and Suzette nodded slowly, her wings fluffing up slightly in interest.

"What's the little idiot done?" she asked, propping her chin up on her palm.

"Oh, gone and decided to duel with a Red Guard. He taunted the other and then accepted the stupid duel. Little moron, with wings so small he can wear them under his shirt," the Musketeer stated, turning to face her and Suzette smiled, tucking the name away for future knowledge.

“So, he’ll duel the Red Guard, his friends will get him out, and Treville will yell at them for getting a civilian involved in their mischief. Don’t think so much, darling. It’ll give you wrinkles,” she cooed at him, wings extending to catch the gleam of candles and he smiled up at her, reaching up to tuck some of her hair behind her ear.

“Yeah, but…seems odd, s’all. Captain doesn’t usually bring civilians into his office, not even Monsieur Bonnacieux, and that’s his tailor,” the Musketeer stated and Suzette nodded in understanding, even as she silently wove the words into her memory.

It might be nothing, but it would give them another name to watch out for.

*~*~*

The Musketeer returned, shockingly enough, the following night.

He was usually one of her ‘once a week only’ visitors, unless something terribly horrible had happened. Come to think of it, she had had a rather larger influx of Musketeers than usual today, starting from around the time she opened her doors, to now. His request wasn’t odd, not for him, a demand to be brought to the edge of what he could handle and being held after, comforted and cared for.

Suzette could do that. She had, somewhat, motherly instincts, though she had yet to have any children (she knew it would happen eventually, in her line of work, no matter how careful she was), but this she liked. Being able to care for someone, especially when it put some extra lining in her pocket.

“What’s wrong?” she cooed softly as he buried his face in her bare shoulder and he began to sob.

“We’re all for one, one for all,” he murmured, scrabbling at to hold onto her, the hard shells opening to reveal simple wings that were now fluttering weakly.

“We’re all for one, one for all _and they abandoned him_! He wasn’t even around that often and I _saw_ how he looked at those three! They abandoned him to the Red Guard, to the _gallows_ , and…they’d never do that to each other! But they’d do it for…for that boy! They’re going to let him hang!” the Musketeer shouted into her shoulder between sobs and she soothed him gently as she ran her fingers through his hair, keeping clear of his hard shell and sensitive wings underneath, of the soft skin that hadn’t seen any light harsher than candlelight for who knew how long.

“I’m here, I’ve got you,” she murmured softly and the Musketeer clung to her all the harder as she lifted her wings to shield them from all light of her rooms.

*~*~*

“Suzette!” Vadim greeted, brown wings with sky blue spots spreading behind him as he walked up to her out of the shadows, her own bluish-gray wings spreading in response.

“Vadim!” she squealed and bounced forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek before she dragged him up the stairs to her rooms.

She passed other women like her who would be more than happy to take the Musketeers that came her way, and shut the door tight behind her before she carefully pushed him towards the bed. “I missed you,” she greeted and he smiled.

“Missed you too,” he answered warmly as he tugged her to the bed, their wings spreading of their own accord to brush against the others.

*~*~*

“Oh, I overheard something you might find interesting,” Suzette stated and Vadim looked up at her.

“Oh?” he questioned.

“Yeah. There’s this boy, d’Artagnan, got sent to the Châtelet for dueling. Before that though, one of the Musketeers that comes here on occasion, talked about how he followed Athos, Porthos, and Aramis like a puppy, essentially. He was so angry, so distressed, when he was arrested before Good Friday,” Suzette stated and Vadim stared at her, head shifting to the side, wings shifting with him.

“What else?” he asked and Suzette sighed, wings folding down briefly before she unfolded, spreading out to their best.

“He was taken to see the Captain,” she continued and Vadim’s wings flared briefly before he sighed.

“I had suspected as much. He was too eager to help, too defiant when he looked me in the eye when I threatened to cut off his fingers, too…convenient!” Vadim snarled wings flaring out, puffing up as his hands closed into fists at his sides.

Suzette murmured soothingly and carefully placed her hands on his shoulders. His wings immediately folded and he turned to her, her hands ghosting across his skin as he stepped into her embrace, his nose nuzzling against her temple. “I had hoped I was wrong,” he admitted softly and she made a questioning sound, bringing her wings up to wrap around him as best she could, his own wings fluffing up slightly again at the thought of letting a betrayer into his roost.

“We could have used a boy like that, could have brought him into our flock, when we went to our new life outside of France, the stars in your hands, and with enough money to buy all the titles we want, and ways to get even more of both when we got to our new life,” Vadim stated and sighed.

“But others already have his loyalty and I had suspected him from the start, nearly strangled him in the Châtelet, but…I guess I’ll have to blow him up when I blow up the palace,” Vadim answered and Suzette sighed sadly at the thought.

“Pity you didn’t find him first,” she murmured, her wings fluffing up slightly.

“Yes,” he agreed softly as he rested his hands on her hips.


	3. Fiery Memories (PTSD, Flashback, Panic Attack, Multiple Mentions of Nearly Dying by Fire and Explosion, both separately and together)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan must face an old fear as present circumstances mirror what he thought he had put to rest.
> 
> [This chapter also has unintentional self-harm.]

D’Artagnan felt sick to his stomach as he cheered for murder.

He was sure, even when he was old and gray, he would not be able to cheer like this for senseless killing. He had seen what such pointless murder brought; more death and innocents getting in the crossfire.

His heart clenched, however, when Vadim mentioned a traitor and twisted when Vadim stopped at Felix. Felix, whose tattered fly wings that spoke of a painful past were hidden under his cloak, got the look of a broken man, already arguing against him being the traitor, only for Suzette to soothe him with a simple, “Vadim knows that Felix.”

D’Artagnan felt his wings twitch, his stomach dropping at the idea of being found out. These men, and one woman, were plotting the murder of _royalty_ and he truly didn’t think they would hesitate to kill him. He held onto hope that another had been here on false pretenses until the moment Vadim pointed a pistol at him.

“On your knees,” Vadim ordered and d’Artagnan glanced around before staring at Vadim.

“You’re wrong,” he protested, barely a whisper, but Vadim spoke right over him with a snarled, “Musketeer,” as he strode toward d’Artagnan, pressing the pistol against his throat.

D’Artagnan slowly sunk down onto his knees, his wings pushing against the bindings in an effort to unfurl and hit away those that were cornering him, again. He was being …

His thoughts were cut off with a pistol butt to the back of the head, pain being his last thought before he fell into darkness.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan’s head pounds as he comes to, and he is unsure if it is that or something else that is at fault for making his stomach churn.

There is something sticky on his forehead however, which is irritating, and he reaches up to rub it off, a soft moan pushing out of his throat. He is awake the moment his wrist is stopped by braided cloth that digs into bare skin.

His head snaps up, suddenly the terrified fourteen (twelve, ten, eight) year old boy tied in the cellar of the abandoned house. He thinks he can smell bread, but he isn’t sure and his wings are frantically trying to free themselves from their bindings.

It is a combination of Vadim’s, “Good you’re awake,” and the fiery pain of a few scales being…removed from his wings that snap him into the present.

Right.

Vadim had hit him upside the head upon finding out he was a traitor. The stickiness on his forehead is his blood, and he is unsure as to why he isn’t dead yet.

“I was hoping you would be awake for this part of our…brief acquaintance,” Vadim stated and d’Artagnan looked around himself before he leaned back slightly, realizing he was tied to barrels of gunpowder.

Vadim was going to blow him up.

He was barely listening anymore, his wings fighting their binding, causing more agony and there is that sickening feeling of scales falling off. They’ll grow back, he knows that from unfortunate experience, and he tries to focus on Vadim, especially when he speaks of there only being _fourteen_ minutes before the candle lights the fuse. “It doesn’t matter what you do to me Vadim, I told the Musketeers _everything_ ,” he snapped and pulled back, wings tensing, when Vadim entered his space.

“You told them _exactly_ what I wanted you to tell them. I told you how the trick worked, d’Artagnan, you should have been paying attention,” he snarled, brown wings flaring, cloaking d’Artagnan in shadow, and he pulled back, the movement almost making him vomit.

He had met men (boys) like this before and he stared at him, even as his eyes flickered to the candle as Vadim left with a taunting, “Tick-tock, d’Artagnan, tick-tock,” the door shutting closed behind with the finality of a tomb.

For a few moments, d’Artagnan’s mind was frantic nothingness, his entire being straining and struggling against the braided cloth that dug into his skin, the slick feeling of blood sliding down his wings doing nothing to help break him off it when he felt the braided cloth give a little.

He paused and glanced at the right hand cloth before glancing back at the candle. Panting and half in a cellar back in Lupiac, d’Artagnan began to tug and saw the cloth against the edge of a barrel. He could feel the damage being done to his unprotected wrists as he sawed at the cloth, unsure of how long he had been sawing, how long he had left, just kept glancing between the two, swallowing back his nausea in a way he couldn’t swallow back his fear.

A part of him was still screaming, making him feel chilled and sick; made him feel like that fourteen year old boy again as he choked on smoke, tied in the cellar of a house no one went near.

It was a small part, compared to the rest that was split three ways; one way trying to find out how much time he had left (which fed that small part), the second focused on sawing through the cloth, and the third trying to ignore the feel of blood on his wings (and now trickling onto his back) as his wings continued to fight their bindings. All of it collided however when he freed his hand, gasping in relief and the candle sputtered out.

For a brief moment relief made his muscles feel like water and his bones like mush, slumping back just as the primer caught. D’Artagnan lurched, focused on the left hand, his wrists aching. He glanced at the cord that was burning, the fire racing toward a keg and his wrist was free in time for him to throw himself onto the ground, yanking the cord away and throwing, the cord fizzling out in the dirt.

For a few brief seconds, he was still and then relief crashed into him like a wave, forcing a hysterical laugh out of his chest. He curled in on himself briefly, shuddering in the dirt (and yes, he could smell bread, and he distantly remembered Vadim mentioning something about bread ovens), before he slowly began to move.

His first attempt to get onto his feet ended up with him back in the dirt. His second attempt nearly sent him onto his wings.

It was on his third attempt that he finally managed to get to his knees and, with great reluctance, he used the barrels of gunpowder to get to his feet. Shivering, he looked around, noting there was a source of light from somewhere that allowed him to see his weapons’ belt, untouched beyond no longer being strapped to him, against the wall.

He frowned a bit, but didn’t hesitate to grab them, hissing through his teeth as his wings protested. “Wonderful,” he muttered as he headed for the door, wanting nothing more than to get _out_ , only for the door to be jammed.

That panicked nothingness took over once more and he tugged at it frantically until it opened and sparks leapt up from around his feet, hissing filling the air once more. He turned, wings slamming ineffectively against his bindings as he stared at the four primers, and he moves, trying to put them out.

They are nearly at the gunpowder before he recognizes it as the useless endeavor it is and takes off.

The explosion makes his ears ring and there is a wall of air that shoves against his back as he crashes to the floor, coughing through the dust and smoke. He shudders as he slowly crawls back to his feet, making note of all the new hurts, his ribs being an unwelcome surprise, even as he belts his sword and pistol back on.

He draws his sword while he has time, shakes his head, and goes on the hunt for Vadim.

*~*~*

“I should have strangled you in the Châtelet,” Vadim gasped and d’Artagnan knelt down, ignoring every single pain that erupted into a fiery furnace at the movement.

“Why didn’t you?” d’Artagnan questioned.

“It was a good trick. It should’ve worked,” Vadim answered and d’Artagnan wondered if he would ever meet someone who wished to hurt him because of his actions, not just for their own amusement.

It seemed to be a theme of his life.

“It nearly did,” he answered and slowly stood up, closing his eyes briefly as a wave of dizziness washed over him.

Vadim is dead at their feet however and he feels as if the chill of the clinging winter has moved into his skin. He shudders and tries to not think about the last few hours.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there before feathers brush across his fingers and he reacts without thinking.

He jerks away from the feathers, his sword (his father’s sword technically) coming up to fend off attackers that he _knows_ aren’t there, even as his mind screams at him to keep from going back in the burned out cellar, only to find that he is pointing the sword at Porthos’s chest.

Porthos’s eyes widen slightly as d’Artagnan stares at him, distantly aware of the fact he is panting (and that panting is making his ribs ache), and everything under his shirt is sticky to match his forehead.

He wants to get clean, go to Constance’s home, get bandaged up, sleep for the first time in days, and eat, also for the first time in days, in that order.

But he cannot stop trembling, or panting, even though stopping both would probably help stop the pain that fills his body, more than just the pain he is used to from daily binding. The sword tip is shaking, holding it up adding to the aches, but he can’t lower it, even though he knows (he _knows_ down into his _bones_ ) that Porthos would never hurt him.

“D’Artagnan?” Porthos called softly, as if trying to calm an injured animal, and d’Artagnan slowly lowered his sword.

He is shivering all over and he breaks eye contact to sheath his sword. He doesn't look up, feeling as if his skin is too tight, trying to breathe and trying to remind himself he is not a little boy in Lupiac anymore, but a man in Paris. That even though Vadim tried to kill him by fire as the boys of his youth once did, though in a different fashion, it doesn't mean that he's that boy anymore.

He's a full grown man and he won't die like this, not today.

His breathing is mostly normal (it hitches, because it hurts too much to take too deep a breath, just like right after jumping out of a second story window) and he looked up as he asked, “So…how am I getting back into Paris proper without going back to the Châtelet first?”

“Easily,” Aramis stated, his eyes sweeping over d’Artagnan’s form.

“We take you to the Garrison. And there, Aramis will patch you up, even if Porthos has to hold you down,” Athos answered and before d’Artagnan can contemplate just running for it, Porthos is there, one of his large wings coming up to block his escape route.

It is a gesture d’Artagnan is familiar with, his mother having done the same, though never to trap him, but to comfort him; as if she could somehow hide him under the shadow of her wings and keep him safe from all harm.

So when Porthos gently nudges d’Artagnan with his wing, d’Artagnan begins to walk, even if it feels like with every step, he is heading towards the hangman’s noose.

Because, unless he can keep his wings from them (which is unlikely; Aramis was probably going to make him strip to check him for all possible injuries if the stories Porthos told him were anything to go off of), that was exactly where he was practically headed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my fear of fire has crossed over into my Musketeer fanfiction. This is the second time I've had d'Art nearly die in a fire related thing in his past.
> 
> One time an accident, and one time on purpose.
> 
> Like, seriously.
> 
> It is showing.
> 
> (I think it has to do with the fact that he runs after Athos and I GOT SPOILED ABOUT A THING IN A FEW EPISODES THAT HAPPENS TO D'ART SO I CONNECT AND IT HASN'T HAPPENED YET!!!)
> 
> Tumblr is a cruel mistress.


	4. Blood Stained Scales (Blood, Really Nasty Injuries, Some Self-Harm)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> D'Artagnan is pretty malleable with a concussion, right up until they try to get off his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [First, here are d'Art's wings extended (practically; it is a little off, but I was so unhelpful that wanderingidealism did such a fantastic job with my very unhelpful description). I hissed in sympathy pain and flinched upon seeing them. While he's not that beat up (on his stomach and such wise) in this part, that is pretty much what his wings are like. Yeah, ouch.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2144391)
> 
>  
> 
> [Second, HAVE PORTHOS'S WINGS!!! LOOK AT THESE GORGEOUS THINGS!! Oh, so handsome. I want to be cuddled in those wings, seriously. Mmmm, cuddles from Porthos, yes yes.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2144238)
> 
>  
> 
> Third....
> 
> THIS CHAPTER WAS SUCH A PAIN!!
> 
> I had to argue with the muses, especially Porthos and eventually I just gave in!
> 
> *makes sound and flops over*
> 
> What should have taken two days, thus allowing me to work on the 5+1 for my _other_ fic had, instead, taken me 14/15 _days_ and just.....
> 
> Yes, I admit, I got distracted by....things, but they actually related back to this so yeah.
> 
> Just....
> 
> Porthos really just made this thing a mess. I blame him. That muse...fuck, that muse just can't be argued with.
> 
> I thought no muse could be worse than _Thorin_ , but I was wrong. Oh, so wrong.

It was strange, Porthos decided halfway to the Garrison, having someone tucked under his wing again, but not undesirable.

In fact, Porthos had _missed_ having someone tucked under there.

He used to have someone tucked there all the time when he was in the Court; Charon and Flea, mostly, but the occasional kid that needed to be tucked under there. Thinking about it now, however, and watching the way d’Artagnan seemed to follow the shadow without even being touched (a sign of someone used to being tucked under a wing, unlike the two who cleared the way for them), he realized he hadn't had anyone tucked under there _since_ Flea.

Specifically since she had gripped his tunic tight, her wings like those of the pigeons that survived on the streets of Paris brushing against the inside of his own wings as she begged him to stay.

He couldn't of course, and he could tell, looking in her eyes, that she had known that even as she begged him to stay. That it wasn’t…it wasn’t that he wanted to abandon the Court, he just didn’t…fit. It hadn’t been until he met Treville, had met Aramis (had met Athos), and helped the Musketeers, newly formed and barely even fledged, that he even figured out where he _did_ fit.

Right in the Musketeers, working under Treville, alongside the two men that walked in front of him, and their boy (and he was theirs, to protect and keep safe and bring with them when they did foolish things, like fight with the Red Guards, even if they hadn’t known him long, it was long enough for him to somehow wiggle his way into an empty space Porthos hadn’t even realized was there) tucked under his wing. Well, maybe not _always_ tucked under his wing, but certainly there, right with them.

Alongside them, since he would be their equal, but younger; someone to teach and coax into _letting his wings out_.

Porthos, at this point, would settle for d’Artagnan letting his wings out once a week, instead of all the time like he should, in hopes that any permanent damage could be kept at bay until he learned that he _could_ let them out all the time. That whatever reason he kept them bound down wouldn’t apply here.

He carefully brushed his wing along d’Artagnan’s shoulder when the young man began to falter in his steps, drawing him a little closer. He kept his smile to himself when d’Artagnan easily followed the gentle persuasion and instead focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

The farther he walked, the more he realized how many aches were in his body, the flood of fight excitement dying the farther they went from where they had left Vadim with other Musketeers. Each step just kept adding to the list of aches he had collected; ribs, right arm, his wings.

It was the wings that were the worst, since their common ache, which came from the fact he had to consciously _lift_ them slightly so the longer flight feathers didn’t drag on the ground, was being compounded by the way his left wing was lifted in order to keep d’Artagnan firmly within its shadow. “Almost there,” Aramis called, frowning over his shoulder at them and Porthos nodded.

They were almost there.

They’d be fine.

*~*~*

Treville had started to worry for his three Inseparables, and Cha-…the boy, when the group of Musketeers sent to do clean-up had said they had seen them leave with the fugitive. He knew, deep in his soul, that Porthos would never allow Cha-…the boy to be taken to the Red Guards, but the fact those who had been sent out after came back _before_ them was worrying.

It only got worse when the Musketeers sent to retrieve Suzette had found her dead, stabbed most likely, half-packed. The body had still been warm, so she couldn’t have been killed by Vadim, leaving them with only dead ends and no way to make sure that this was just Vadim’s plan. It was, in all likelihood, entirely Vadim’s plan, but Treville would have preferred to make sure, considering all the cohorts they had arrested and dragged to the Châtelet had thought the plan was assassination, not robbery.

Treville was about to send a pair of Musketeers out looking for them when the sun was midway to sunset when his three Inseparables stumbled into the courtyard below his office. At first, his heart thrummed with fear, wondering what had gone wrong for Porthos to be holding his left wing like that, if Charles was really dead, only to nearly slump over in relief when Porthos folded back his wing to reveal Charles, dried blood on his forehead, head pulling back slightly, as if trying to escape the light.

Porthos reached up then to gently grip the back of Charle’s neck, which had the boy twisting slightly before relaxing. Of the four, he was obviously the worst off and his eyes trailed to Athos. “Athos,” he called and the leader of the Inseparables looked up.

“Write the report while Aramis takes care of all _four_ of you. You can give it to me after you’ve had your injuries looked after,” Treville ordered and Athos nodded, Treville retreating back into his office only when he saw the three Inseparables herding Charles into the Garrison.

*~*~*

D’Artagnan was frighteningly malleable and slow on his feet, stumbling slightly as they, mainly Porthos, guided him into the closest ground floor room that was only used for the injured. It was one of the larger ones which had two beds, a table, and two chairs, jokingly called the Inseparables’ Room, since if one was injured, all three ended up staying in the same place.

Treville supposedly allowed it due to the fact that if they were all in the same place, they couldn’t get into any trouble if they were all in one place. “Sit,” Aramis ordered and d’Artagnan sat onto the bed, letting out a low sound of pain as his entire body was jostled from just dropping as he did.

“All right, let’s get this off,” Aramis muttered as he reached for d’Artagnan’s leather jacket, only to start when d’Artagnan’s hands snapped up, gripping Aramis’s wrists almost tight enough to cause bruises.

His fingers were trembling and his eyes were too wide, so obviously panicking. “No,” d’Artagnan whimpered.

His breath was hitching and he was curling in on himself, unable to go far because of his bound wings. Aramis looked helplessly up at Porthos, surprised to find the large man already moving, sitting on d’Artagnan’s left side. “Hey, easy there d’Artagnan,” Porthos stated, quickly sitting next to d’Artagnan, his right wing lifting over d’Artagnan and covering him in its shadow.

The young man was still panting for air but he slowly relaxed again and released Aramis. “All right…we’ll wait to take that off. I need to look at your head wound first. Porthos?” Aramis stated and Porthos pulled his wing back enough so Aramis had enough light to see the head wound.

Careful fingers searched for the source of the blood through d’Artagnan’s long hair and he winced in sympathy when he brushed the back of d’Artagnan’s skull, fingers coming away sticky with blood. He then twisted and urged d’Artagnan to look down, wincing at the dust stuck in his hair, the blood matting it. “That is one nasty bump,” he stated and slowly pulled back.

“We’re going to need to remove your jacket,” Aramis stated and d’Artagnan shook his head, closing his eyes tight as he pressed his lips together.

He looked like he was going to be sick and Porthos shifted his wing again, bringing d’Artagnan back into the shadow while Aramis hummed an old Spanish lullaby. D’Artagnan relaxed and he stared at Aramis, almost unfocused and childish.

He was a boy, still. An old boy, but he was a _boy_ and Aramis resisting the urge to pull him close and curl around him to protect him. “That needs to be cleaned out and I really don’t want you sitting in soaked layers after, so the jacket comes off,” Aramis stated, and he shared a frown with Porthos when that got d’Artagnan to agree to its removal.

“Probably a concussion,” Aramis muttered as he helped d’Artagnan out of the jacket before he nodded once.

“All right, I’m going to get some hot water from Serge. Watch him,” Aramis ordered, and left the room, heading for the kitchens.

Serge was more than happy to let him take some hot water for cleaning out wounds. Then again, Serge was always more willing to do Aramis a favor than anyone else in the entire regiment, even Captain Treville.

Aramis thanked him as he left, hauling it back to the room and urged d’Artagnan into a chair so his back was to Athos before he began to clean d’Artagnan’s hair. “Aramis?” Athos questioned and Aramis hummed a bit as he began to wipe d’Artagnan’s face.

“Maybe you should clean the back of his head,” Athos stated and Aramis looked up with a frown.

“D’Artagnan, I’m going to look at the back of your skull, all right?” Aramis stated.

D’Artagnan made a sound and Aramis pat his shoulder before he picked up the bowl he had poured some steaming water into, setting the rag in it before he walked around, only to still.

There were blood stains on his shirt. Odd, not matching anything Aramis had ever seen before, but most definitely from his wings. “Yes, I’ll clean this off first, as best I can at any rate,” Aramis murmured.

He began to carefully get all of the dust out d’Artagnan’s hair, murmuring soothingly whenever d’Artagnan’s wings shifted, new blood joining the stain already there. He outright hummed when he had to start removing the dried blood, but soon the hair was clean, even if the shirt was ruined, and Aramis was finally able to look at the wound under all the hair. “Doesn’t need any stitching, lucky for you,” Aramis stated as he walked back around, cleaning d’Artagnan’s face fully, smiling charmingly to keep from frowning over how unfocused d’Artagnan seemed, slumping sideways against the back of the chair.

“There,” he murmured softly and carefully pat d’Artagnan’s cheek before he stood up.

“Stay,” he added and walked over to Athos, making a waving motion.

“Off,” he ordered and Athos gave him a look.

He glanced, pointedly, at the bloody stains and Aramis shook his head, turning to face the room at large. “Porthos, Athos won’t remove his shirt. Come here and help me,” Aramis called and Porthos heaved himself up with a low hiss.

D’Artagnan shifted, as if to stand, and Aramis almost knocked over the table to stop him. He shouldn’t have bothered, as Porthos was already there and he had a hand to his shoulder. “Don’t move. ‘Mis’ll get angry if you do,” Porthos stated and urged d’Artagnan to rest sideways against the back.

Porthos didn’t even glance at d’Artagnan. “His shirt ruined?” he asked softly as he began to remove Athos’s uniform, ignoring the way his golden eagle wings flared in obvious annoyance.

“How did you know?” Aramis asked as he finished stripping Athos of most of his uniform.

“Athos always caves. You want d’Artagnan to relax, you want me here, and you want to jump him to get the shirt off and are hoping that between all three of us, we can. However, you need to make sure there are no broken ribs or other injuries that, if d’Artagnan gets a lucky hit, will become more than you can handle, so…here we are,” Porthos muttered and Athos hissed as Aramis prodded his ribcage.

“You, good sir, are quite lucky. They’re just bruised. I won’t even have to wrap them,” Aramis stated as he pulled back.

They both helped Athos back into his uniform before Aramis focused on Porthos. “Now you Porthos,” Aramis stated and turned to Porthos, smiling as he helped the larger man out of his uniform.

While all of their uniforms were near impossible to get in and out of without aide of some sort (there were long straps to slip under the rest and shirts were unresisting if made right), for Porthos it was a step closer to impossible than most, his flight sized wings making everything a chore. It was probably a good thing, then, that he rarely had to do anything of the sort alone and Aramis ducked down to prod at his ribs.

Porthos grunted and Aramis frowned. “I may have to wrap these,” he muttered as he began to search, Porthos hissing when Aramis found abrasions and bruises.

“How did Athos escape this?” Porthos grumbled.

“I believe you protected me from the bulk of it,” Athos answered, the rustle of paper being shifted catching the air, followed shortly by Athos’s sighing.

“I need to move this closer to the window,” Athos stated right before the dragging of a heavy table across the floor filled the air.

Aramis tensed, his wings unfolding completely, the wings trembling when d’Artagnan shifted. “Don’t move,” Porthos stated, his wing stretching without impediment, covering d’Artagnan once more in shadow.

D’Artagnan, who was starting to shiver, obeyed and Aramis frowned. “Athos, build up a fire if you would please,” Aramis ordered, smacking Porthos’s hand away when the man reached over to push him away.

“Leave it ‘Mis,” he murmured and Aramis sighed before he gave in and helped Porthos back into his uniform, glancing over at d’Artagnan.

“Let me try first,” Porthos murmured softly and moved, kneeling in front of d’Artagnan, who raised his head from where it was slumping forward.

“Porthos?” d’Artagnan slurred and Porthos smiled gently.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Porthos soothed as he kept a hand on d’Artagnan’s cheek, the other dropping down to begin unlacing his shirt.

“Can…can I move?” d’Artagnan asked after a few moments.

“Not yet. Just a few more checks, all right?” Porthos stated, finally getting the shirt untied and reaching around slowly to untuck it.

The peace shattered the moment the shirt moved. “No!” d’Artagnan shouted, lurching back before he seemed to remember the state of his wings and instead tried to twist, instead falling on his probably already cracked ribs on the ground.

He curled in briefly before he was moving, dodging Porthos’s attempt to grab him as he tried to get around the larger man, and his wings, to head for the door, but Athos had already moved, blocking it.

D’Artagnan was panting, his breath hitching as he scrambled back. “No, you can’t, just…I can take care of it!” d’Artagnan protested, even as Armais followed him, though Porthos seemed to be distracted by something on the ground.

D’Artagnan frantically shook his head and tried to get onto his feet, Aramis following him when he failed. “I can, I can Aramis, I can take care of it!” d’Artagnan protested.

“I don’t think you can right now,” Aramis stated, his wings completely up and out.

D’Artagnan tried to twist away again and Porthos was there. He carefully gripped d’Artagnan’s wrist, which had him gasp in pain and the larger man immediately shifted his grip. D’Artagnan looked up at Porthos, looking pale and sick and _exhausted_ , trembling apart at the seams. It only got worse when Porthos pressed something into d’Artagnan’s hand and released d’Artagnan’s hand to gently cradle his face.

The boy made a broken sound and Aramis felt his heart tear itself in two as Porthos gently rubbed his thumbs along d’Artagnan’s cheekbones. “You can’t bind them down, not while your ribs are hurt like they are. That’s probably what is causing that hitching,” Porthos soothed and d’Artagnan shook his head slightly.

“Hey, you are you. We _know_ you. We won’t abandon you for this,” Porthos soothed softly and when Aramis opened his mouth to agree, Porthos’s wing smacked him.

Aramis shut his mouth.

“I saw wings like yours before. She was amazing, by the way. Great big things. She was the one who taught me to fly,” Porthos stated and Aramis looked over at Porthos, surprised he was sharing something with someone they barely knew.

Oh, he was one of them, but…new. An unknown still, but d’Artagnan was holding onto Porthos’s wrists, as if he was his only anchor in a storm. “What color were they?” d’Artagnan asked softly and Porthos brought his wings around, slowly enclosing d’Artagnan in a cocoon of black feathers.

Aramis hated it when Porthos did it, having never had the experience. His own mother had had the wings of a white moth and he had a feeling Athos never had an upbringing filled with sitting at mothers’ knees and listening to old songs while learning to sew because he was the only one. D’Artagnan’s breathing, however, had eased, by the sound of it, so Aramis prepared for the worst of whatever it was.

“Gray, like stone. A lot of people said she was a gargoyle come to life. She couldn’t fold them under like you could and hers had claws on the end, but she still braved it all to teach me to fly,” Porthos answered and Aramis looked over, trying to put together what Porthos told them while Athos took a step back against the door.

“Almost nice, gargoyle. My mother said they kept away evil spirits,” d’Artagnan answered softly and Porthos was shifting.

“Yeah, she said the same thing. Don’t raise your arms,” Porthos answered and Aramis felt his jaw drop.

Athos, who was still by the door, took a step forward. “You know they’re going to have to see, because the bindings have to come off,” Porthos stated and there was a sound.

“Can’t…can’t you just…take care of it all?” d’Artagnan asked.

“They’d have to know after. You can’t bind your wings down till the ribs heal. I can tell how badly they are bruised and there is barely any light on you, and that’s bad,” Porthos stated and there was a panicked sound.

“No! I can’t! I’d…I’d have nowhere to live! Bonnacieux…he’ll throw me out! No one would take me!” d’Artagnan protested and Porthos’s wings shifted, curling tighter around d’Artagnan.

“You could board with me. Against the rules of the Garrison, but no one will say a word,” Porthos stated and Aramis jerked slightly.

Porthos hated letting people into his space, hated letting people stay with him in what he made safe. Aramis was about to protest when he saw Porthos drawing back and inhaled sharply at the sight revealed when Porthos fully withdrew his wings.

D’Artagnan’s wings were bone and scale, bound tight to his back. There were bandages under his wings and a sheen that could only be blood that coating them, as well as staining his skin. It took him a few moments to realize that there were scales _missing_ and he stepped forward, mouth open in horror at the damage he was seeing, flinching when d’Artagnan hunched slightly.

“We need to get those bindings off,” Aramis stated and walked over, hesitating when he saw how they were bound.

“Athos, I need you to help hold the wings down as we remove this,” Aramis called as he knelt down to the side to figure out how to do this.

Porthos had already wrapped his arms around the wings above the bindings and Athos was there, pressing against the wings under the bindings. D’Artagnan had started to, naturally, struggle, Aramis murmuring soothingly in Spanish as he reached around to undo the bindings at the front, wincing at the way the wings tried to snap out, based on the grunting he heard from Athos and Porthos, before he began to slowly remove it, hissing when two more black scales dropped to the floor.

He threw the binding across the room and focused on the bloody mess of wings and…sores. That had to be what was under the bandages already there and Aramis hesitated to touch _anything_ on d’Artagnan’s back before he undid the bandages, hoping he was wrong, but not removing them. The wings were right on top of them and he didn’t want to cause d’Artagnan more pain. “Right…I’ll try to staunch the bleeding on the wings before…anything else,” Aramis stated and quickly went to retrieve everything.

With a sigh and only slight hesitation, he started on the left wing, which was closest to him, and immediately d’Artagnan thrashed, trying to get free. Aramis murmured prayers softly as he worked over every missing scale, trying to staunch the blood flow as best he could before he moved to the right wing. “All right, lets…let the wings out, and then I can work on…everything else,” Aramis stated, wondering if they should get a surgeon or someone a bit more qualified before remembering how hard d’Artagnan fought to let them see the wings and even now seemed to just be waiting for something horrible to happen.

 _Mon dieu_ , what had _happened_ to him?

“Hit the ground,” Porthos warned and Aramis and Athos obeyed the moment the wings were released.

There was a sound of a collision, followed by d’Artagnan’s hiss of pain and when Aramis looked up, it was to the sight of two black wings partially out stretched. Aramis stared in shock at the way the skin slowly became darker and scalier until it was right at the wing joint at his shoulder blades. Aramis lifted his hand to hover, carefully following the first large bone down to about d’Artagnan’s hip, and the second up to be parallel with his shoulder. The third bone was flat and connected was a fourth bone, which, when folded, probably fell to about the same spot as the first bone did. There was leathery skin, the same color as the scales, stretching and there were veins and…

“Mis,” Porthos called and Aramis pulled back, focusing on d’Artagnan’s tensed back and flinched.

His reaction, this was…probably not helping. “Just making sure nothing else was injured,” Aramis lied easily and went back to d’Artagnan’s back.

The sores were…painful to treat if only because the obvious negligence that put them there. Or self-torture or…whatever this was.

Probably self-preservation, no matter what the side-effect of it was.

Prodding the ribs had the wings flexing, but each bump against the beds had them retracting quickly before settling at a “relaxed” position, and Aramis sighed. “Cracked all around, at least. Lucky you, d’Artagnan, they’ll need to be wrapped,” Aramis murmured and stared at the sores.

“Might need to…wait to wrap them, however, at least until the sores heal,” Aramis stated and sighed, looking around. “Let’s pull one of these beds out,” Aramis stated and stood, nodding to Athos, as Porthos was hardly going to leave d’Artagnan, who was still terrified in Porthos’s gentle grip.

It took some effort, but soon the bed was pulled out, and, with only minimal fighting, they got d’Artagnan into bed, finding the spot with the least amount of pain for him (half on his right side and with every piece of fabric that was cleanish and soft tucked around him, along with pillows). It was then that Aramis found the bloody wrists.

He winced and murmured soothingly to d’Artagnan as he began to mutter about Bonnacieux. “We’ll take care of him,” Aramis promised gently as Porthos carefully settled on the edge of the bed, back to the open air, and began running his hand gently over d’Artagnan’s hair.

D’Artagnan fell asleep while Aramis cared for the wrists, bandaging them with his softest bandages and murmuring a prayer in Spanish over them before he packed up his medical kit. “Wake him up…in about an hour,” Aramis murmured to Porthos, who nodded, and continued to pet d’Artagnan’s hair.

Aramis, once sure that his patient was safe, carefully collapsed into the chair that once held d’Artagnan. “Well, that explains a lot,” Aramis stated and Athos made a noise to show he was listening.

“I’ve never seen wings like that before. I think he could carry one of us with him, if he built up the muscle,” Aramis stated and Athos made a noncommittal noise.

Aramis gave him a look and Athos looked up at him. “He’s still raw,” Athos stated.

“Well, he’s ours,” Aramis stated and glanced back at d’Artagnan before he looked over at Athos when he realized Athos didn’t protest.

Ah, good, his near tearful question of, ‘Is he dead?’ wasn’t a one-time fluke.

“We didn’t get his side of it for the report,” Aramis added, deciding he would save his comments for when everyone was healed.

“I’ll get it when he wakes up,” Athos responded and Aramis nodded before he slumping against the back of the chair, starting to doze.

He would have to be in top form to make sure that d’Artagnan understood they weren’t going to abandon him because of his wings.

*~*~*

“I don’t want to leave him there,” Porthos muttered as they walked away from the Bonnacieux house.

They had all seen the way Bonnacieux’s wings, like ones on a goose killed for market, had puffed out and spread, the way d’Artagnan’s wings had tried to pull down against his back to hide away, in response. They had hoped, well Aramis had hoped, that d’Artagnan had been overreacting a few days ago when he had first begged them to not reveal his wings.

The fact he hadn’t been made Aramis wish he hadn’t kept d’Artagnan’s wing bindings from him. If he had known that d’Artagnan’s heart and soul were on the line, he would have let the boy put his wings at risk instead.

“We couldn’t keep him in the Garrison longer, since he’s been fully pardoned and everything’s been explained,” Aramis stated.

“More or less,” Athos added and Porthos snorted.

“Still don’t want to leave him,” Porthos muttered.

“Neither do I, Porthos. Neither do I,” Aramis answered, clapping Porthos’s shoulder.

“But we must,” Aramis finished and Porthos grumbled, even as they headed for the nearest tavern.

And, if Porthos cheated a few Red Guards out of their coin well…that was there fault for playing cards with Porthos at all, wasn’t it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you all yell at me for d'Art being so malleable and emotional.
> 
> 1) D'Art is always emotional.
> 
> 2) D'Art has the following things effecting him....
> 
>   1. A concussion
>   2. Not having slept a full night since Wednesday and it is, at the time he gets dragged to the Garrison, late Sunday
>   3. Hasn't eaten since Thursday morning, and it is, at the time he gets dragged to the Garrison, late Sunday
>   4. Is in a lot of pain from the cracked ribs, scales being missing
>   5. And suffering from some minor blood loss due to the scales being _ripped out of his wings_ and the head wound
> 

> 
> Yes, he's a bit out of character. Wouldn't you be?
> 
> I have no explanation for Porthos basically going, "HE'S MINE, I CLAIM HIM! I'VE ADOPTED HIM!"
> 
> None.
> 
> Absoulutely none.
> 
> That's what I blame on him.
> 
> (It is adorable though, isn't it?)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Captain Treville, the Ever Vigilant Falcon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144205) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)
  * [Felix, a Common House Fly](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144277) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)
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  * [Constance, a Butterfly Trapped in a Glass Box.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2144307) by [wanderingidealism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingidealism/pseuds/wanderingidealism)
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